


Disenchanted

by yourfavoritetsundre



Series: While the Angels Sleep, All of the Devils are Awake [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hell's Library - A.J. Hackwith
Genre: Anniversary, Book of Enoch, Christmas, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Established Relationship, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Forgiveness, Headcanon, Implied Sexual Content, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Memories, Redemption, Self-Hatred, damaged characters, unwritten library
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavoritetsundre/pseuds/yourfavoritetsundre
Summary: Aziraphale worries about how he's supposed to move forward, and the difference between getting involved and getting Involved. Crowley uncovers a secret while working with Hell's Librarians. But the funny thing about being an immortal being in love with another immortal being, is you really don't have to rush anything.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: While the Angels Sleep, All of the Devils are Awake [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165136
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Disenchanted

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The bookshop which broke the detective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439943) by [TheKnightsWhoSay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnightsWhoSay/pseuds/TheKnightsWhoSay). 



> Hey, guys, sorry I'm late to the party. 
> 
> I swear, I only meant to write a short fic inspired by TheKnightsWhoSay's Visitors to the Bookshop series, and then this happened. I've worked on this thing for two weeks. I actually printed it to edit because it was a string of scenes that didn't have a point. I think it still is. 
> 
> But I have to work on my novel, so I need to just publish this so I stop tweaking it. So if it doesn't make sense, I'm sorry. 
> 
> So, crossover. If you haven't read AJ Hackwith's Library of the Unwritten you should! It's a cool concept. This also relies heavily on research I've done on the Book of Enoch and the story of the Watchers. You can go to Wikipedia for spark notes, but if anyone wants to discuss I'd be more than happy to!

####  **Heaven - Shortly After the End of the World**

“Shouldn’t we put it to a vote? Allow the host to decide?”

Empty. Glass and metal and emptiness. It hadn’t been like this the last time Crowley had been here. Or maybe it had, and he just couldn’t remember. 

“We’ve already clipped his wings once. If we do it again, there won’t be anything left. This will be a kindness, compared to that.”

“Any word from Her?”

“No. Why would She get involved in this?”

A part of him wants to laugh. A delirious giggle. Why would She be present for his execution? She had told him to create the stars, and then cast him down simply because he had asked Her why. Now he has asked again, louder and more pointed, and still there is Silence. 

Then he remembers, he is not wearing his own skin. This is not his execution. He stays silent, though the tape on his mouth helps. 

“Well, he is the last. If I remember, you were the one who argued for his forgiveness the first time around.” 

“Cold feet, Michael?”

“Of course not.” Footsteps echoed across the floor. “I’ll be going to deal with the other problem downstairs. Try not to make a mess, Gabriel.” 

Aziraphale. Aziraphale would be downstairs by now. The idea of the angel, alone in the damp crowded place…

“Right, let’s get on with it.” 

~*~

####  **London - Two Years Later**

The demon Crowley lounged in the hard cafe chair, and picked at the reflective plastic table. A tired waitress dropped a watery coffee in front of him, and retreated. Crowley didn’t mind crappy coffee, he always told Aziraphale, as long as he wasn’t being overcharged for it. 

If you took any average human of the age that Crowley appeared to be, and dressed him in the same clothes, had him drive in the same car and live in the same apartment, you would have said the human was trying too hard. You might have said he should settle into a salaried career and clothes more suitable for his generation. He wore sunglasses inside, for Hell’s sake. Wear less black and more layers suitable for adapting to all types of weather. Perhaps take out a responsible loan with a responsible interest rate and buy a house like a responsible adult. 

Crowley, along with a handful of middle aged musicians who also had forgotten to trade in their leather jackets, did not look like he was trying too hard. The youngsters who wore these outfits were trying too hard to look like Crowley. 

Crowley waits, but he does not wait for long. He rarely does. They only say the devil is patient because they don’t realize that he re-stacks the deck in his favor. 

A woman enters the cafe, looks around, and narrows her eyes. She is very clearly a librarian, though she does not look like any librarian you have ever met. She ignored the waiter playing on his phone at the door and sat at the demon’s table, pulling and arranging her layered skirts as she did. Her braided hair is pulled away from her face, and sharp eyes darted around the cafe. The aged rocker and the aged hippie made for quite the pair, but the customers around them pointedly ignored them. 

“What do you want?” the woman grunted at him. 

Crowley put down his mug. “Hullo, Claire. Lovely to see you again.” 

Her lip curled. She did not appreciate being summoned. But after the fifth pigeon had been sent, and knocked over her favorite teapot, something had to be done. 

“I’m a busy woman, Crowley. And I can’t just pop up here for no reason. I’m only here at all because I had a retrieval to make and managed to spare some time.” She pulled a small lighter from one of many pockets, examining it closely. A ghost light, allowing the dead to walk the earth. “But make it quick, I don’t have much.”

“I’m looking for a book,” Crowley slid a folded piece of paper across the table. “I was hoping you would be able to help.”

The librarian was not impressed. Theatrics did little for her, these days. She ignored the paper. “I can’t allow a book to leave the Library.”

“You book types are all the same,” the demon sneered. “Posing as librarians and shop owners, hoarding it all for yourselves.”

He had cut straight to demeaning. Whatever patience he had been cursed with had been spent over the long years.

“There are rules, Crowley. They’re in place for a reason. I can’t just give you an unwritten book. What would happen if a character were to wake up? Especially someone from that book.” 

“You don’t have to give it to me, you can just tell me if you have it and I can take it from there.” 

Claire gave him a stern look. All librarians had their own personal stern look that they had mastered, and for that matter most bookshop owners had one too. Hell’s Librarian, however, had perfected it. The demon sipped his coffee, unaffected. 

"If we have it, if it's in the Library, you can see it but you can't take it here." She bargained. "You can come and read it during Library Hours, like everyone else."

"That won't be possible."

"I know you're not exactly popular down there right now, but the Library is neutral ground."

Crowley shook his head. "It won't work. It would be too difficult."

“Why do you want it, anyway?” 

“None of your business."

“Well, if you’re so hellbent on stealing it, I’m sure there’s a museum somewhere that has one.” 

“But it’s unfinished. So I thought you’d have a copy.” 

The Librarian picked up the paper and read the messy scrawl, then refolded it and pursed her lips. “I’m not sure if this is unfinished, technically. Sure, they say he wanted to go back and change it, but it was complete...Not that I’d give it to you if it was in our hands. No, Crowley. There’s no telling what could happen if it left the library. Besides, for this one you'd have better luck in the Poetry Wing, or maybe the Unsaid."

“You think I just go around making friends with librarians? You’re the only one I’ve met in the last thousand years.”

“Then you should know that librarians don’t go around letting demons steal books for personal use. A librarian’s duty is to protect the books from many things, especially that.” 

The demon scowled at the grounds left in the bottom of his cup. Since the Arrangement, the most destructive thing he had done to a book was suggest the creation of banned book lists, which of course did nothing except encourage more people to read them. Not that anyone understood how helpful that was for Hell’s mission. He hadn’t even attended a book burning since the destruction of the University of Nalanda, and he had been one of the ones trying to put the fire out. Heaven was always so funny about what knowledge was approved.

In this moment, though, the thought of sneaking into Hell and setting fire to their precious Library to make a point was very petty and very tempting. Then he looked at Claire, and thought better of it. 

“What do you need it for anyway?” she asked again. “I’ve never thought you were the reading type.” 

“It’s not for me,” he said shortly. “Look, I understand if I can’t have the original. We all have jobs to do, and yours is to keep the Library in order.” 

She looked guilty. “Well, no, I’m in charge of the Arcane Wing now. Brevity is in charge of the Unwritten Wing, but I still won’t let you take it.” 

“Well, could you just...put a line out? I’m sure there’s ways of finding copies.”

She sighed, then reached across and picked up the folded paper. She pocketed it without looking at it. “Alright. I’ll...I’ll look. For copies in _this realm_ , Crowley. But I’m not making any promises.” 

“Thank you.” 

Something in her face softened. Hell’s inhabitants didn’t thank each other, as a rule. And in the short time they had known each other, Crowley didn’t either. “Must be important,” she observed. 

The demon didn’t reply. He just stood and walked away, leaving the ghostly figure alone at the table. 

Claire glanced about the cafe, then pulled the lighter from her pocket again. She took a deep breath, and blew out the flame. 

~*~

####  **Soho - September 28**

“Mister Fell?”

Aziraphale frowned out the window at the busy street. A crowd of tourists were walking by, gawking at their surroundings. You could tell they were tourists and not residents of Soho because they weren’t very interesting. It was a distinction that came with the territory. 

“Mister Fell?”

Aziraphale had been around long enough to have seen several iterations of the neighborhood. He, of course, rarely changed to suit his surroundings. The neighborhood had changed to suit him. But he tried not to think about that. He wasn’t supposed to get involved, after all.

A hand gripped his elbow and he jumped, looking around. A young woman was looking at him with concern, though it looked a little stiff and uncertain on her. 

“Anathema.” he said. “Hello, dear. Did you need something?”

She frowned. “I called you three times. Are you alright?”

He vaguely remembered someone calling a name. Oh, right. His name. He looked at the young woman again, not sure if he knew how to answer. 

“Perfectly fine.” he told her firmly. “How can I help you?”

She released her hand on him, and asked for a book. They both knew where it was, but he pointed her in the right direction anyway. Anathema had taken to hanging around the bookshop when Newt came to town to visit his mother. The absence of the Book that had guided every member of her family for three centuries had left her curious for all the books she had missed out on. As a general rule, Aziraphale did not like the types who hung around his bookshop. But the witch never tried to buy anything, so he supposed she was harmless. 

Aziraphale looked out the window again. In truth, he was tired. As much as an immortal being who didn’t need sleep could be tired. There were rumors traveling in certain circles. It had been near constant these past years, the conspiracies and near misses. 

There was the opening of the Angelus, when Aziraphale had made a point to be on a book buying trip to Japan. There was the old god who had taken up residence in Chelsea, which was like having a bat in your house that you were too afraid to catch. Then there had been the Devil's Bible fiasco, of course. Aziraphale had caught wind of it and immediately gone on vacation. It had been a nice trip, and by the time he and Crowley had gotten back it had mostly blow over. Uriel managed to get discorperated in that one, and Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for them. 

But when the next disaster struck, Aziraphale couldn’t just disappear again. So he kept his head down and pretended nothing was wrong. It was exhausting, and there wasn’t even the rush of righteous adrenalin to pick him back up again. 

But things were stirring up again. He could have sworn he had seen...well, no use worrying about it. 

He had other things to concern himself with. The sudden decline of the fine dining industry, for starters. He could be doing something about that. Crowley might accuse him of selfishness, but it was an industry that supported thousands. The service itself had become an artform. Some humans even started to have pride in their work because of it. Going to his favorite restaurants to compliment creative chefs and career servers wasn’t getting Involved, per say. There was a difference between Involved and involved. This was just spreading niceness. Humans were known to do that from time to time, weren’t they? 

Aziraphale’s frown deepened as his thoughts returned to the demon. He had seemed secretive lately. It wasn’t like him. It could only mean that the demon was about to get Involved, when they had promised each other they would stay out of it for a while. 

_Crowley doesn’t break his promises,_ Aziraphale reminded himself. _He’ll do just about every other terrible thing he can think of, but he doesn’t go back on his word._

Though to be frank, in six thousand years Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he had ever given Crowley the chance to. 

~*~

Something is wrong with Aziraphale. 

It’s not hard to notice. The angel isn’t very good at acting. Most angels aren’t. They are unfortunately blessed with honesty. 

It started last week, when the angel seemed distracted by something. But Crowley was fairly distracted too, so he thought nothing of it. Besides, a distracted Aziraphale meant he wouldn’t be interfering in anything, so that was alright. 

Then he started avoiding Crowley, which, alright, Crowley often wanted to avoid Crowley as well. It wasn’t the first time the angel had come up with a flimsy excuse to walk the other way, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Crowley had hoped they were past that, but old habits did die hard. 

But then he started ignoring him, and that was when Crowley lost it. He had gone to the bookshop, and the angel had acted like he was another of his inconvenient customers, and so Crowley had stormed out. 

Perhaps it was unfair of him to go to the bookshop without an invite. But he had been worried. 

Crowley went to the park by himself to kill time before his meeting. He did not enjoy it. 

~*~

What appeared to be a teenage girl with seafoam green hair frowns after the black-clad figure as he slams the shop door behind him. He doesn’t look like most of the demons she knows. He’s dressed for the time period, for a start. Inexplicably, a nearby human drops their expensive smartphone. It shatters into a hundred pieces, and the human starts swearing and cursing the creator of the machinery. 

The girl adjusts her hold on her bag and enters the shop. Inside seems devoid of customers. It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday, after all. The shopkeeper fumbles with books on a display table while a young vivacious woman watches him nervously. 

“Mister Aziraphale?” 

The shopkeeper looked up, and his troubled expression seemed to melt away. He smiled instead. “Brevity. How lovely to see you.” 

Brevity likes the bookshop. She’s a former muse, and a current librarian. Anywhere that held a pile of books or a mug filled with pens, a drawer of paints or a closet of costumes, a block of knives or a packet of instrument strings, she would feel at home. 

But the angel’s bookshop was different. It wasn’t a place of creativity, because angels couldn’t create. It was a place of true appreciation, a collection. So in some ways it felt more like home to the muse than others. 

The human was staring at her, puzzled. Most humans would stare right through her, part of the natural camouflage that beings of other realms wrapped around themselves. Humans would ignore them, ignore the blatant signs that there was something otherworldly about them, unless they brought attention to themselves. 

Brevity caught sight of the book in her hands. Ah, that explained it. A witch. 

“This is Anathema.” the angel introduced. “We were just about to have some tea, if you’d like to join.”

Brevity has more freedom to roam the realms than previous librarians did, given her status as a muse and not as a damned soul. However, she was still a servant of Hell and couldn’t dawdle on earth for too long. She had things that needed taking care of.

But she did love tea.

“I’d love to.” she beamed. 

Aziraphale’s tea collection was not quite as extensive as the books or the wine, but it was more than adequate. He settled the witch and the former muse in his back room and set about making the tea. 

Brevity made polite conversation with the witch, but kept an eye on the angel as he miraculously found the mugs he needed in the back of a cabinet. He stared at the door, as if waiting for someone to walk through it. 

“Mister Fell?” 

The angel’s head snapped around at the sound of the witch’s voice. “Yes, dear?”

“Are you alright?” 

His lip trembled, but he pulled it into a smile. “Of course I am. Ah, yes, here we are, ladies. Some nice tea for us. Bit too early for wine, anyway.” 

Brevity had a lot of experience with people who liked to avoid talking about their problems, and often found it was best to just let them be. They’d come out with it eventually, she reasoned.

Clearly, Anathema was not of this school of thought. Her gaze bored into the angel. “You weren’t very nice to Mister Crowley earlier.” 

“Hm? Oh, well, you know, he can be quite the bothersome creature,” he blathered. “Always showing up unexpected. Going to get him in trouble one of these days. Both of us, really.”

“I thought Hell agreed to leave you alone,” Brevity piped up. “They stay out of your way and you just keep going business as usual.” 

“Oh, well, they did, and Heaven did, but who knows how long that will last. Not that Crowley will be here when they changed their minds.” 

Anathema looked confused. “Did you two...fight?”

The angel looked mortally offended. “Fight? Of course not!” 

“Well then...why are you acting like you’re leaving him?”

“Oh, you’re together now?” Brevity asked brightly. “Well done.” 

“I’m not leaving him.” Aziraphale bit out. “He’s moving out. He thinks I don’t know, but he keeps disappearing and lying about where he’s been. As if I’d believe he had a hand in that disaster going on in America.” 

“He’s been living at the shop?” Anathema asked. “I never see him here.” 

“At the shop? Don’t be ridiculous, dear. He has his flat.” 

Anathema looked confused. “But...you just said he was moving out.”

“I think he is but - “ He was cut off by a bell chiming in the front of the shop. “Oh. I forgot to close up. I’ll be back in a moment, ladies.” 

He left and the witch turned to Brevity. “Are we...having the same conversation?” 

“He must mean moving out of the city.” Brevity said thoughtfully.

“How does that - “

"Well, they're immortal, aren't they? Or, at least, not human. The rules are different for them, the way they maintain their lives and operate. Their relationship with each other is different too, compared to what you mortals would consider a relationship. Especially since they're not from the same realm. For two beings who are going to be around forever, being in the same city is probably like being in the same house.”

Anathema looked like she was struggling through it. “I guess.”

"It's like those old couples who've been together for fifty years and sleep in separate bedrooms. They still love each other, but staying apart is a way of staying together and keeping the peace. Could you imagine waking up to the same face for six thousand years?" Brevity shook her head. “No one’s love could survive that.” 

~*~

####  **Somewhere Between The Ritz and Soho - Not Long After The End**

Crowley hadn’t felt like this in years. In fact, he may not have felt like this since the Beginning. 

He wasn’t beholden to anyone. He could do what he wanted without having to come up with a reason other than simply wanting to. It wouldn’t last forever, he knew. Very few things did. But for now he had freedom. And Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure which was sweeter. 

The angel in question was drifting along behind, possibly a result of the copious amounts of scotch they had enjoyed after the luncheon champagne, mid-day cocktails, wine, and after dinner drinks. There might have been some coffee, at some point, but it certainly had some form of liquor in it. Maybe it had been liquor with a bit of coffee in it. Espresso martinis. He wasn’t sure. 

Aziraphale was quiet for the first time that evening. He had spent all of their lunch and subsequent outing chattering away about anything he could think of, more comfortable than Crowley could ever remember seeing him. But now the bars were closing, and it was nothing short of an unintentional miracle that they hadn’t been cut off earlier. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley called, spinning around and grinning widely. “Night’s still young.” 

Aziraphale didn’t bother to point out that the night was not, in fact, young, and neither were they. He kept his head down and trotted along, and didn’t notice that Crowley had stopped until he stumbled into him. 

The demon held him at arm's length, hands resting comfortably on his shoulders. “What is it? You need to sober up?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Are you still worried about the bookshop? Cause I swear there isn’t even a speck of ash. We can go to mine again, if you like. You don’t have to go back until you’re ready.” 

“What do we do now, Crowley?” 

It’s the uncertainty in the angel’s voice that gives him pause. Tells him they need to be serious, if only for a moment. 

“Well, we just keep doing what we were doing, I suppose.” Crowley said gently. “You know, helping them move forward. You’ll keep reminding them of all the good in the world, and I’ll keep causing just enough trouble to keep them going. Get them as far away from the fourteenth century as we can, you know?”

The angel stayed silent. 

“Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to, Aziraphale. You can even keep sending reports back home, if you like. I know how much you enjoy that.” 

Aziraphale scowled. “No, I suppose that can change.” He thought for a minute. “Justifying miracles. _That_ ’s going to change. I can do miracles for the sake of miracles.” 

“And enjoying things, angel. You can enjoy things now and no one can tell you not to. Won’t that be a nice change?” 

“And I suppose our friendship. That will have to change.” 

“Oh.” Crowley panicked for a moment, then saw the simple smile on Aziraphale’s face. Explanation wasn’t necessary. They both knew the basics, and the details could be filled in later. They were eternal, afterall. “Oh.” 

The angle stepped out of his grasp and looped their arms together instead, gently pulling the demon around and back onto the path to their destination. 

“Tell me what else can change.” 

~*~

####  **Soho - Still September 28th**

Anathema left before Aziraphale made it back. He found the former muse holding her mug close to her face with her feet resting up on the coffee table. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at her sand shoes, and she smiled guiltily before returning them to the floor. 

“What brings you here, Brevity?” he asked, firmly putting distance between the girl and his problems. He had been shaken before, but dealing with the customer had given him time to pull himself together. 

“Just passing through,” she said mildly. She took a sip of tea and placed it on a coaster. “It’s good to get out of the Library now and then.”

They fell into easy conversation. As a general rule, Aziraphale did not like muses. They were stingy with their inspiration, and could be wicked with their benevolence when they wanted to. Brevity, however, had flunked out. So it wasn’t impossible for the failed angel to find a friend in the former muse. 

Now she was a Librarian. Aziraphale held a sort of professional respect for the keepers of the Library, though he didn’t have much interest in visiting the collections. Heaven didn’t have its own wing, and generally disapproved of visiting other realms. And the idea of some of the wings - unwritten books, unsung songs - just seemed so lonely to him. Storage places for all the souls that the muses couldn’t be bothered to inspire. Besides, he was sure there was a whole section somewhere in the Unsaid Wing filled with words he had never told Crowley. 

“Then Ramiel, of course - “

“Ramiel?” Aziraphale asked sharply. “He’s no longer at the Gate?”

Brevity furrowed her brow. “Well, no, who did you think I was talking about? He’s been the Arcanist’s Assistant for close to a year now.” 

“I thought you said his name was Rami…” 

Brevity waited a beat. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale said faintly. “It’s one of those pet names, isn’t it?” 

Brevity’s lip twitched. “Something like that.”

Ramiel was the same class of angel as Aziraphale. It made them sort of like siblings. Same batch of creation. After Eden had been closed, the class had been reassigned to watching up close. Boots on the ground. Ramiel and a number of other Watchers had caused a huge scandal by getting too involved with the Mesopotamians, to put it politely. The humans were punished with the Flood. Many of the angels Involved were quietly removed, discorporated and sent to wander endlessly in the in-between, alone and purposeless. Ramiel talked and begged his way into a lighter punishment than most, serving as a clerk at Heaven's Gate. 

Crowley still did not know most of this. Aziraphale would prefer it stayed that way. The demon had his lies and the angel had his secrets, and that was how the two managed.

“What’s he doing these days?” Aziraphale asked. 

Brevity looked like she was trying not to roll her eyes. “I’ve been trying to tell you that. Claire has him on a wild goose chase for some friend of hers. Something about a first edition of a really old book. Older than old, kind of old.” 

Aziraphale rubbed his forehead. He had thought he had seen the other principality on the street the other week, but he had convinced himself it wasn’t him. Why would it be? He was supposed to be chained to a desk outside of Heaven’s gate, processing human souls for the next couple of eternities. 

And then Crowley started acting strange, and he had put it from his mind completely. 

“Do you know anything else about it?”

“Not really. You can ask him, if you want. He came with me. Had to meet with his contact. Some demon, apparently. Claire said they were going to steal the book, but she might have been joking.” Brevity nervously knitted her fingers together. “I hope she was joking. Hero would be furious if he found out Rami was going around stealing books.” 

Just about every alarm in the angel’s head started ringing. 

“Brevity, I think you’d better tell me exactly what book it is that they’re after.” 

~*~

####  **Spain**

Crowley keeps his face pointed towards the busy square, but beneath his glasses he’s watching the Watcher. Something about this being makes Crowley think of something old, half remembered. An uncertain smile, a powerful wing shielding him from rain. It’s something in the eyes, he thinks. A being that knows what power really is. But this Watcher is one of the Fallen, though from a different Fall than Crowley. 

“You’re sure it’s here?” Crowley asked. 

Ramiel nodded, looking at the large building in front of them. “It won’t be on display. It will be in the annex, somewhere. But it is a part of the collection. You’ll need special access to get to it.” 

“Well, that’s alright then. Wouldn’t be fun if it weren’t difficult.”

Ramiel appraised him coldly. “This is fun to you?” 

Crowley sighed. Library types. 

“Crowley!” 

The demon stiffened at the familiar voice. Across the square, an angel was pushing through a crowd of tourists while a green-haired teenager bobbed in his wake. 

“Oh, damn.” Crowley grumbled. 

The Watcher blinked in shock. “Is that...Aziraphale?”

“The one and only.” 

Aziraphale reached the two fallen sharing the bench and glowered down at them. “Ramiel. How nice to see you.” 

“Ah...”

“And Crowley. Dearest.” The angel was trembling. “Now what could you be doing here?”

“This isn’t what it looks like.” Crowley said hastily. 

“What it looks like?” Aziraphale could barely hold it together. “You two here - “

“Angel, honestly, he’s just helping me with a little project - “

“If you want to leave London, fine, but don’t - “

“I don’t want to leave London, why would I - “

“- for Spain, of all places - “

“What’s wrong with Spain?” 

“Maybe we should get going.” Brevity whispered to Rami. 

Ramiel looked at Aziraphale. He was trembling, but not from anger. If anything, he was close to tears. The demon was coiled and ready to strike. Humans were staring. The whole thing was about to get very messy. 

“Agreed,” he said shortly, standing. “I’m sure I’ll have time to catch up with him later.” 

The Unwritten Librarian and the Arcanist’s Assistant disappeared. Several humans looked up at the clear sky to see where the sound of thunder came from. 

“Figures that after everything you would just leave - “

“I stuck around for six thousand years, didn’t I?” the demon roared. “Millenia waiting for you to even look my way - “

“Oh, spare me the sob story. You’re not the only being in all of creation who’s suffered.” The angel squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “If you want to leave, then just say so. But don’t think I’ll let you!” 

The demon’s anger teetered, then dissipated. “Leave?” he repeated. 

“You want to leave me.” the angel confirmed miserably. 

“What - angel. What in hell’s name gave you that idea?” 

“You were acting so strange! And then you’re here, with Ramiel of all damned beings, doing work for the Library. You know that place is nothing but trouble.” 

“Yes, well, trouble is sort of what I’m damned for.” Crowley sighed. “Angel, I’m not leaving you. And I’m not working for the Library. You know how I feel about book types.” 

Aziraphale’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Oh for - that’s not what I meant! Ramiel was...on loan from a friend. And I’m here, in Milan, to get you an anniversary present.” 

Aziraphale blinked in shock. “A...a what?” 

Crowley groaned and looked up at the sky, wishing someone would just smite him already. “I wanted to get you an original, but the Librarians are so damn strict, so Claire sent me Ramiel to track down a copy in this realm.” 

“...but it’s not.”

“What?”

“Our anniversary was in August. We...I gave you a map of the stars.”

“Not that anniversary, angel. The big one.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, Eden.” 

“Yes.”

The beings stared at the ground uncomfortably. Finally, the demon sighed and held out his hand. “Come on, angel. Let’s go home.” 

The angel slipped his hand into the outstretched one, and the pair vanished without a sound. No one noticed when they reappeared on a Soho street, calmly walking as if they were simply on their way home from dinner. Crowley points at a cafe, but Aziraphale shakes his head and they walk on. 

“You don’t need to, you know.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Get me a present. You don’t need to get me a present.” Aziraphale ducked his head. “Especially if you’re going to steal it, but I suppose that’s a different conversation.” 

“I thought you might like it, though.” 

“That’s not the point. Besides, if we start celebrating _that_ anniversary, we’ll have to start celebrating all the other ones. We’d never get anything done.” 

“We could just celebrate the big ones,” Crowley suggested. “When we met. When we started working together. When we actually got together.” 

“The Blitz.” 

“Why would you want to celebrate that?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer. He’ll tell him someday, he knows. The thing about loving an immortal being is that they’ll be around for a while. 

They turn the corner and stop in front of the bookshop. Aziraphale let them in and firmly locked the door behind them. He turns on a few lights while Crowley makes a beeline for the back for a bottle of wine and glassware. 

It’s routine, and it’s comforting, and after everything that had happened today Aziraphale is weary. He doesn’t want to be angry - he really hadn’t been in the first place. He had been worried, and sad. Afraid, mostly. Fear, he knows, looks like anger. They wear the same clothes. 

They settled into the sofa. Crowley reached over and poured the angel a glass of young Portuguese white. The demon had convinced him to branch out and try new things, and he had found he quite liked them. 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale breathed in the vinho verde as Crowley took off his glasses and studied the ceiling. “Good choice.” 

“I’ve been known to make those, from time to time.” Crowley sipped his own glass and held it out to the side. He took up the majority of the space, in spite of his figure. “What was that you were saying earlier about not letting me do something?” 

Aziraphale choked on his wine, and hastily put it on the table. The thing about yelling at someone was half the time you didn’t even know what you were saying, and the other half you prayed they didn’t. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said dryly. He coughed again to clear his throat. “I can’t imagine I’d be able to stop you from doing much of anything.” 

“Oh, come on, angel, we both know that’s not true.” Crowley rolled his head to fix his yellow eyes on the angel. “I always wondered what happened to the rest of the guardians from the Garden.” 

“It’s not my place to speak of it. Michael forbade it. I wasn’t even there at the time.”

“I suppose Ramiel made some sort of deal to avoid punishment.“

“Crowley. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Neither of them breathed. They didn’t have to. 

“Alright,” the demon finally allowed. “We don’t have to.”

Aziraphale took another sip of wine. 

“I’m not going to leave you.” Crowley was watching him closely. “You should know that by now.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” 

“Well, I do.”

“Even when I drive you mad?” the angel demanded. “Even when I stop you from stealing car radios - “

“No one does that anymore, angel.“

“ - and messing with warranty stickers and everything else? Dragging you all over London and forcing you to order food so I can try it? Yelling at you in public squares?” 

“Well, I never thought being with you would be easy.” Crowley’s tone was dry, but there was mischief in his eyes. He leaned closer into the angel’s space. “And I thought we just agreed you couldn’t stop me from doing anything.” 

“Stop laughing.”

“I’m not.” Crowley immediately looked penitent. “And what about you, angel? Would you leave? Get tired of my temper and sleep habits? Wake up one day and decide after everything it just wasn’t worth it anymore?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Then why do you always think I’d do the same to you?” Crowley reached and cupped his face, and Aziraphale sighed and leaned into it. “When have I ever left you behind?”

“I know.” Aziraphale breathed. “I know. I’m sorry, dear. I just...I wasn’t in my right head.” 

Crowley released him and retreated to his side of the sofa. He picked his glass back up and finished what was left, then poured another glass. He offered the bottle to Aziraphale, who shrugged and allowed his glass to be topped off. Not like he’d be following the opening hours on the door anyway. 

“Joseon, 1844.” Crowley said, putting the bottle back down. 

Aziraphale tried to think. He had been to Joseon a few times. In 1844, royal in-laws were running the country into the ground. The state examinations and their positions had become something to be bought. The country had become isolationist and Aziraphale had never had to rely more on the camouflage that made human eyes just slide right over him. 

“You were there for a tempting. Probably some minister.”

Crowley gave a lazy shrug. “Something like that.”

“And I was...oh, the ceramics. They were really something. I managed to save a lot of them, you know.” Aziraphale finally remembered, and smiled. “I saw you at the market.”

“You were flustered.” Crowley remembered. “Didn’t expect to see me, I suppose.” 

“I don’t remember why.” Aziraphale frowned. “I remember...oh, it was such a lovely dress you had on. Grey, I think. With birds.” 

“You told me I had finally found some color.” 

“And then we came back here, you asked me for holy water, and I didn’t see you until...1916. The Great War. Well, it was supposed to be, anyway. Then they went and had another one. Where were you all that time?” 

“I was asleep. I...something happened in Joseon, and I realized I needed a backup plan. And then we weren’t speaking, so I went to bed.” 

They sat in silence for a moment. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and asked, “Why do you bring it up?” 

“No reason.” Crowley stood and tucked the half-full bottle of wine under one arm. He held a hand out. “Come on, angel. It’s late.” 

“Are you staying?” Aziraphale asked. He didn’t know if he meant for the night, or for the eternity. 

“Do you want me to?”

Aziraphale took the offered hand, and let himself be pulled upright. He didn’t release it as he was led up the stairs. He had only ever kept the flat for when Crowley needed to stay the night. The furnishings were from the last time he had updated it in 1956. The bed is always made and the fridge is always empty. He didn’t sleep, and he didn’t take his meals at home. But Crowley did sleep, because it made him a little more human. 

~*~

####  **Upstairs - Later**

Crowley lays awake. It doesn’t happen to him often. When he wants to sleep, he sleeps. And that’s the end of it. 

Tonight, though, he lays awake. An angel sits with him, back against the headboard. Watching. They say evil never sleeps, but in this case it’s not true. 

“I just wanted to help, you know.” 

Crowley shifted and looked up at his angel, whose eyes shined in the dark. His face was pinched with sadness. He was at once the inspiration for all the most beautiful marble statues carved, and the ones that conveyed the most pain. 

“I forgot I had a purpose. A job. I had forgotten…” His brow furrowed. “I had a title. What was it?” 

“Angel of the Eastern Gate.” Crowley recited softly. 

“No, after. I left Eden and was given a new purpose. But...I forgot. I was so focused on following orders, and helping...helping to heal them, helping to send them on the right path...helping them avoid you.” He considered for a moment. “I spent so long assuming anything I did was right and anything you did was wrong, and I just...got lost in the duty, I suppose.” 

Crowley didn’t speak, afraid to interrupt. 

“Something old, buried, forgotten…” Aziraphale mumbled. 

Crowley decided it was time to give up any pretense of sleeping. He sat up and shifted to face him. The angel kept his gaze on the hands in his lap as he continued to speak, slowly as if he wasn’t even completely aware the words were being released into the world. 

“It’s been bothering me lately. Like those humans who leave their houses convinced that they’ve left the stove on. Poor things.” He sighed. “And then seeing Ramiel, my...brother...he’s still doing his duty, in a sense. Shepard to lost souls. All the time he spent wandering and lost, and all his time as a clerk, and he still remembers and I...I’ve allowed myself to get distracted. To forget.” 

“I don’t think you’ve allowed yourself anything, angel.” He reached forward to stroke the side of his face. “I do think you beat yourself up too much.” 

“Hell is a punishment you assign yourself,” the angel mumbled. “So I’m told, anyway.”

Crowley reached and Aziraphale came willing, falling into the embrace. He cradled the angel, bowing his head to press his face into the white curls. 

“What if I gave you a new duty?” Crowley offered. “I can think of plenty of things to keep you busy.” 

“I’m not sure if I want to hear this.” 

“Angel of Failed Apocalypses. Keeper of Unsold Books. Savior of Uncorked Wine.” Crowley grinned delightfully. “Creator of Dirty Sheets and - ” 

“Oh, stop it, you old snake.” 

“Sorry, angel. Trying to lighten the mood.” 

The lapsed back into silence. Aziraphale tightened his grip on the demon. 

“Maybe you were supposed to work for the Library.” Crowley said softly. “I think you would have liked that.” 

“No, of course not. There’s no Library in Heaven.” 

“You don’t have to do what the archangels tell you anymore.” 

“I know that. But it’s still...the Library is something else. Not meant for either of us. It’s why mortal souls are usually the Librarians.” Aziraphale frowned. “Though it seems the rules have changed. No, Crowley. I’ve...I made my choice. My place is here, with you, just as it’s always been.”

They sit in silence again. Crowley focuses on the warmth of the angel in his arms. He’s not sure if it's the celestial energy inside him, or the heat of the human body he’s encased in, or just the love that radiates off the angel wherever he goes. He idly stroked the place where wings would emerge from skin, drawing out a happy hum. 

“What happened in Joseon?” 

Crowley froze. 

“There must have been something. I know you enjoy sleeping, but that was quite the nap. I had started to think you had left.”

Crowley considered lying again. He could say it had been nothing, or make something up. He was very good at making things up. Or he could use this as leverage. It’s what he’s good at, anyway. Offering deals, making arrangements. 

“I’ll tell you about Joseon, if you tell me about the Blitz,” he offered. 

The angel doesn’t answer. 

~*~

####  **Richmond - October 21**

Crowley and Aziraphale went to Kew Gardens. 

Aziraphale made it a point not to visit gardens. Parks were one thing, but gardens...he had left it behind, hadn’t he? He had been given an option to stay, or even to go back to Heaven if he wanted. But he went out into the world, instead. He had a job to do…

Crowley has said he doesn’t care much for gardens either. He had a hand in the design of several - who but a demon could have dreamed up the engineering feats of Babylon? But once they’re finished he avoids them. Keeps to the controlled world of the plants in his flat, punishing the slightest flaws…

It seems fitting though, to celebrate the beginning of the world with a distant approximation of it. They wander through, not saying much and trying to get lost. When a fine drizzle starts, the pair miraculously find themselves near a park bench under a large tree. The bench seemed just as surprised as anyone to find itself there. And it’s just the devil’s luck that security hadn’t noticed the bottle of champagne in Crowley’s bag. 

“Do you think She’ll ever be done?” Crowley asked. “Testing them?” 

“I’d like to think some day it will end.” Aziraphale answered softly. “Maybe at some point it did end. Maybe this is all just...them. Things they’re doing to themselves, just like they always have.” 

“I’m told that Hell is a punishment you assign yourself.” 

“Hmm. Makes us a little pointless, doesn’t it?” 

Crowley let out a long sigh. “Angel.”

“I’m just saying - “

“Aziraphale, for the last time. Just because one project finished doesn’t mean the whole bloody job’s done. I’m not letting you retire. Now stop moping and drink some wine.” 

Aziraphale took the offered bottle with some level of resignation. _Angel of Alcoholism and Other Legal Addictions_ , he added miserably to the growing list of titles. _Defender of Those Losing Battles Against Themselves._

He could drink the next hundred years away, he considered. Crowley had slept through most of a century, there was no reason he couldn’t be drunk for one. Who would stop him?

He took another long sip from the bottle and passed it back, already talking himself out of the plan. He had enough to do without dedicating time to alcoholism. He was in the process of petitioning the muses to spend some time inspiring a cure for AIDS, which really was a job given how much damned paperwork was involved. And his pet project, the fine dining industry. Less paperwork involved with that. Crowley had even agreed to help him with it, though his argument more had to do with a high end kitchen being haven for masochists and narcissists. 

He could still do good, he had realized. Nudge them in the right direction. But there was still the feeling that he was forgetting something. 

The rain stopped, the wine was finished. They stand and retrace their steps, finding their way back to the beginning of the journey. Aziraphale looped his arm into Crowley’s, unable to let him wander too far away. Crowley slowed his stride to match him. 

“Tell me about Joseon,” he tried again, trying to believe it would work. Power of suggestion, and all. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, angel.” 

Well, he had never been very good at temptation anyway. 

~*~

####  **Shoreditch - November 14**

“How did the theft go?” 

Crowley had felt the presence before he approached. It’s hard not to. The fallen Watcher is short and broad, with heavy features that seem to be designed to guard emotion. 

“I think we both know it was a complete failure.” Crowley muttered. “So much for an anniversary present.” 

Ramiel froze. “You wanted that for an anniversary present?”

“He likes books.”

A funny spasm crossed Ramiel’s face. He sat in the chair to Crowley’s right, frowning suspiciously at the bottles lined up along the bar. 

“More options than the last time you were here?” Crowley grinned. “I suppose it’s been quite some time. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I don’t have much time.”

“Ah, a business meeting then. You can tell that dear, sweet Arcanist I have no idea where Pope Clement’s Scepter ended up. Haven’t seen it in thirty years, honest.” 

“This is about something personal.” The Watcher frowned as he considered. “Is he...is he happy?”

“Who, Aziraphale?” Crowley shook his head and took a sip of his drink. “Happiest bastard I’ve ever met. Always convinced of the bright side, he is.” 

“What’s he like?” Ramiel asked distantly. “Of all of us, I never thought he would be the one to…”

“Disobey orders, spit in the face of the archangels and avert the Apocalypse?” Crowley summed up. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him either, at the Beginning. He likes rules, Aziraphale. Has a sense of duty that would put Death himself to shame.” 

A bartender drifted by, and Crowley pointed at his empty glass. 

“But he _believes_ ,” Crowley continued after his glass was refilled. “He believes in them, believes it’s all about them. Even when the chips were down and the archangels showed their hand, he’s trying to reach the highest authority to save them. Suppose it’s why his wings are still white, isn’t it?” 

Ramiel sat in silence. 

“You could just go and talk to him,” the demon suggested. “He does like to do that.” 

“I doubt he’d want to talk to me, of all beings.” 

“He hangs around me, doesn’t he? I mean, he might just have a thing for older creations, but I’m not complaining.”

Ramiel looked away. As if after everything he had witnessed Samael and Azazel and Kabaiel and all the others doing, hearing of Aziraphale’s preferences for something not holy but not fragile was truly damning. 

“Well, I’ll be off. Need to make sure this video sharing platform isn’t banned in the free world.” 

“You still...you still do that?”

Crowley laughed. He couldn’t help it. “What? Did you think I’d suddenly lose interest? Just because I don’t want the world to end doesn’t mean I’m going to stop causing trouble.” 

“But...you don’t want to be forgiven?” 

“I already have been.” He gave a backwards wave. “Don’t forget to tell Claire about the Scepter!”

~*~

The first time, Crowley doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. Psychology hasn’t been invented yet, at least not a helpful type, and even if it were he wouldn’t be signing up for it. 

Anyway, it’s more of a feat of engineering and invention than a garden. On his paperwork, he writes a painstaking explanation of how he had influenced the king, the builders, how it was designed to be so grand that even God Herself would look on in jealousy. He had it on good authority that it was quite beautiful. He spent more time justifying the project on paper than he actually spent influencing the humans to build the damn thing.

The Hanging Gardens, the pinnacle of human engineering, pet project of the Demon Crowley, would go down in history as a wonder of the time period. It burned, eventually, and became erased by nothing more than time. But its beauty, the idea of it, that will live on. To the point where some scholars will speculate if it was ever actually a place, and perhaps it was more of a euphemism. 

There was Sigiriya. The Water Gardens were still something he took pride in. And Philopatium. By then Crowley started to have an inkling of what he was doing, and took a step back for a millennia. When he started again, it was in Kyoto. The Zen Gardens of Ryoan-ji. There was something about the careful arrangement of rocks, the meditative practice...he had almost felt peace. 

It was rubbish, peace. He needed something bigger. Something long term, something that would cost a king’s ransom. Something he could distract himself with. 

Crowley spent years on Versailles. Pouring sweet poison into the ears of several successive kings, a handful of wanton mistresses and the endlessly influential Chevalier de Lorraine. By now he knew exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t build a garden, he was a demon after all. But he could influence the most beloved creations to build one just to spite Her. 

“A Palace for God’s chosen king,” he had toasted Luis XIV. “Beautiful enough to be Heaven itself.” 

The amount of money he convinced the French monarchy to spend on the palace and the gardens, maybe he was indirectly responsible for the Reign of Terror after all. And all of Luis XIV’s pride and vanity amplified by his Hall of Mirrors, every time the Sun King toasted to his Heaven on Earth the blasphemy burned away at his holiness just a little more. 

Then Crowley had a difficult couple of centuries, and honestly the whole Versailles ordeal had exhausted him. Not a lot of time for his...whatever this was. It wasn’t until after he settled into his Mayfair flat that he started gardening for himself. Psychology had been invented at this point, but Crowley knew that he didn’t want to hear what they would say. 

Hell is a punishment you choose for yourself, or so they say. And if this existence is his, then he’s going to do all he can to make it at least a little like heaven. 

~*~

####  **Mayfair - December 24**

Christmas usually means work for the Lord’s servants. It’s another thing that Aziraphale has in common with service industry workers. He doesn’t mind, though. This is the time of year that humans celebrate family and loved ones, and Aziraphale has only half of the equation. Story of his existence. 

This year, though, his half of the equation sweet talks him into taking at least the one night off. The humans can handle one Christmas Eve without a miracle, the demon reasons. And it's not like there was a head office to report back to, if they had even bothered to read just one of Aziraphale’s bare-bones reports over the past millennia. He’ll even go out and _help_ spread Christmas spirit the next day to make up for it. 

And so Aziraphale found himself bundled in a thick green sweater decorated with Father Christmas, and nibbling on a bit of gingerbread that Crowley had purchased. Crowley had decorated for the season with some of the largest poinsettias Aziraphale had ever seen. In the corner of the sitting room a spruce grew quite comfortably in its little dish of water, covered hastily in a net of lights and red and silver baubles. Aziraphale doesn’t bring attention to the lack of a tree topper, but then, this isn’t Crowley’s holiday. He tried, and to the angel it counts. 

“You think this looks right?” Crowley called from the kitchen. For the first time since the flat had been rented, the kitchen was a disaster. The demon was peering into his oven at the ham that was far too large for two. “I don’t think this looks right.” 

“We could just order in,” Aziraphale suggested a tad wearily. 

“Absolutely not, angel. It’s Christmas Eve. Who the Heaven orders in on Christmas Eve?”

Aziraphale doesn’t see the point of arguing for the ones who don’t celebrate Christmas, or the ones who just can’t cook. Crowley may want to believe he can roast a ham, but clearly some technicality is escaping him. 

“And you’re supposed to be an angel. Aren’t you supposed to have faith?”

“Faith in the Almighty.” Aziraphale remarked dryly. “Not in a demonic partner’s cooking abilities.” 

Crowley starts mumbling to himself in the kitchen, so Aziraphale turns back to his book. He’s not sure what he expected out of Christmas, but so far this is just any other night. Well, Crowley attempting to cook is something new, but otherwise it's fairly mundane. Six thousand years on the mortal plane, and a stack of festive napkins and two wrapped gifts under the tree is all they have to show for it. 

The bell rang, and Crowley shouted, “Can you get that?” So Aziraphale marked his place with a napkin decorated with holly and opened the door. On the other side, a stout angel in an oversized coat held a bottle of wine and an expression like he was surprised anyone had answered. 

“Ramiel.” 

“Aziraphale.” 

The two stared at each other for a moment. Then Ramiel thrust out the bottle. “Happy Christmas.”

“What? Oh, er, thank you. Happy Christmas to you too. Ramiel. Ah…” 

Crowley materialized at Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Ramiel! Happy Christmas! Angel, invite him in.” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose.” Ramiel said hastily. “I just wanted to drop off the wine and say hello.”

Aziraphale regained his composure. “You wouldn’t be. Please, come in. Crowley is just, well, undercooking the ham, if we’re being honest.” 

The demon glowered and stalked back to the kitchen, where he found that the oven was not nearly hot enough. Aziraphale showed the Watcher in and went to get him a glass. 

“Funny of him to show up today.” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley hummed in agreement as he turned the oven temperature up much too high to compensate for his mistake. “Almost like a Christmas miracle.”

“You didn’t.” 

Crowley smirked. 

“Crowley, how could you!”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything, angel. I simply told him to drop by, and perhaps suggested that you might have similar interests and you would like to see him, and the holidays were the perfect time for that.” 

Aziraphale stayed silent. 

“Go and talk to him. He’s the closest thing to family you’ve got. And stop this...whatever this is, it’s unsettling.” 

The angel’s expression tightened, then relaxed. He leaned forward and pecked the demon on the cheek. “Thank you, dear.” 

Crowley’s face was pink as he took a sip of his wine. “Hmph.” 

“We can talk more about what you know of my _family_ after he leaves.” 

Aziraphale left, and Crowley glumly stuck a wooden spoon into the boiling pot of potatoes. “That’ll be a good way to end Christmas.” 

Ramiel’s visit is short. He stays long enough to finish a glass of wine, and to talk with Aziraphale about mundane things. He seems surprised that the angel is a bookseller. He offers few details about his life, his duties in Hell’s library. It’s awkward, but it’s not terrible. 

He leaves just before Crowley realizes he’s burnt the ham, and that using the smallest amount of salt enhances the flavor of food. He hadn’t used any. Crowley curses every deity he can think of while dumping the entire meal into the bin. 

Aziraphale looked up from his wine as Crowley dropped onto the couch, defeated. 

“Take away?” he asked. 

Crowley nodded sulkily. 

Aziraphale settled more comfortably into the sofa. “My friend Helene offered to drop something off for us after her shift if we needed it.” 

“And I suppose it’s just by the Grace of God you have such an agreeable friend who happens to work for one of your favorite chefs.”

“Drink some wine, dear, you’ll feel better.”

Crowley buried his scowl in his glass. The pair sat quietly and observed the tree. Aziraphale reached over and took Crowley’s hand. 

“How did you know?” 

“About Ramiel?” Crowley looked over at the angel, hesitant. “Something about him reminded me of you. You from the Beginning. Bless it, I could barely stand in your presence, back then. All that holy energy poured into a single being.” 

“But you did.”

“But I did. Not a lot of things are worth burning for, in my experience, but...well…” He spread his hands. “After they all...They didn’t really Fall, did they? After that whole bit with Michael begging to punish them and Enoch scribbling away, I noticed you were...different.” 

Aziraphale stayed silent. 

“What happened back then?”

“I wasn’t involved, if that’s what you’re asking.” Aziraphale snapped. “What Samael and the others did I had no part in.” 

“I know, angel.” Crowley said gently. “I know you wouldn’t.” 

“Uriel felt that all of the Guardians were...flawed. That what the others did only proved we couldn’t be trusted. They wanted to send me to the abyss with the others.” The angel shuddered. “It was Gabriel who stepped in and stopped them. He pointed out that I wasn’t even in the area when it happened, and he claimed it was an infection of humanity that corrupted the others. Admitting to a design flaw would have been bad PR.”

Six thousand years, and Crowley was finding he could still learn new things about Aziraphale. A piece was clicking into place, the reason Aziraphale had been so beholden to Gabriel. He had always suspected it was something more than the soldier’s duty to the commanding officer. No, Aziraphale thought he owed the archangel. 

Somewhere deep down, Aziraphale was desperate to prove he wasn’t flawed like the others. Afterall, indulgences in food and wine were a far cry from the carnal appetites of his siblings. Endlessly apologizing for something he had no part in. Toeing the line to show that he wasn’t a mistake.

“How did no one hear about this? No one ever mentioned it downstairs.” 

“Heaven wasn’t in a position to admit to dissidence. It was better to sweep it under the rug. Or drown it, if you want to get technical.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Uriel even tried to have Enoch’s records erased. I was ordered to make sure the book was never included in the Bible. I spent years hunting down copies. Apparently I missed a few.”

Crowley’s lip twitched. “I always wondered how you ended up obsessed with books.” 

“They just sort of...multiplied.” 

“What happened then?” Crowley asked, but he already knew the answer. 

_We already clipped his wings once._

Aziraphale’s mouth trembled. “They...they stripped away some of my grace. Made me less. So the humans wouldn’t notice my power, they said. Made sure it...couldn’t happen again.” 

Crowley made a disgusted sound. The demon didn’t remember much from Falling, only that there was pain, a burning that he’d never forget, and then the wreckage that was left was made into something new. Twisted and inverted into an unrecognizable being. But even through that, he had retained his essence. Not even the devil could be so cruel.

“It hurt so much, Crowley.” The angel buried his face in his hands. “They took a part of me and I’ll never get it back.” 

“Oh, angel. Come here.” 

Aziraphale fell gratefully into his waiting arms. Crowley’s shirt smells vaguely of the meal he had destroyed earlier, but there’s an undertone of leather and clove from his cologne. His embrace is tight and endless. 

Of the two of them, Crowley is the one who changes most. His appearance, his clothes, his scents. Even his name. Aziraphale hopes that this, at least, never changes.

Aziraphale had expected to feel some sort of release after telling Crowley the truth. At least tears. Instead, the numbness that he keeps gathered around the festering wounds he’s accumulated over the many years pulls back around him like a cloak. Crowley’s embrace is grounding, keeping him tethered to a room filled with poinsettias and dim Christmas lights. 

“I should have beaten them to a pulp when I had the chance.” Crowley growled in his ear. 

“Revenge won’t fix anything. Especially not now.” 

“No, but it would make me feel better.” 

Aziraphale sighed and made the demon’s shoulder his home for the foreseeable future. 

“I don’t think you’re any less.” The demon’s voice had dropped in pitch, the way it did when he comforted his angel. “I think you’re still the picture of angelic grace you’ve always been.” 

“Thank you, dear. You’re very kind.” 

Crowley’s grip tightened to bruising. After a moment he relaxed, and the pair shifted into a more comfortable position on the couch. On the table, Crowley’s phone buzzed with a text from Aziraphale’s friend Hannah. Her shift ended soon, and she’d be able to drop by with dinner. 

Hell was a punishment you inflict on yourself, and all Crowley wants is for his love to be enough to end the one Aziraphale had chosen. But it didn’t work like that, the demon knew. Aziraphale would have to find it in him to get past this, and the best Crowley or his love could do was be there to hold together the pieces when it was over.

“Do you blame them?” Crowley asked quietly. “Samael and Ramiel and the rest of them? They’re just as much to blame as anyone.” 

“No.” 

“You’re too forgiving.”

“Perhaps.” 

They both stared at the tree in the corner. It was very simple, but it was pretty. Aziraphale could understand why the humans did this every year. Even the ones who didn’t believe. 

“Happy Christmas, dear.”

“Happy Christmas, angel.” 

~*~

####  **Soho - January 3**

“Bloody umbrellas.” Crowley slammed the door of the bookshop shut behind him and tossed the offending object into a corner. “Aziraphale! Bloody wind. Aziraphale!”

The angel poked his head around a shelf, glasses perched on his nose. “Yes?”

“Why is it that in the whole of creation you had to settle in the dampest, coldest corner of the whole blessed solar system?” the demon seethed. “Doesn’t even freeze properly, does it? In a country that can’t even make proper umbrellas.” 

Aziraphale came around the corner and picked up the umbrella, shaking it out and observing the damage. The cloth had come free of one of the spokes. 

“Could have based yourself in Arizona. Or Italy. You love Italy. Instead we’re here. Suffering from wet socks nine months of the year.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Aziraphale helped him out of his damp jacket and hung it on the back of the desk chair to dry. “And you can hardly get around Italy, churches every hundred meters.” 

Crowley sulked and dripped on the carpet. Aziraphale left and came back with two mugs of tea, by which time Crowley had dried himself off with a little bit of demonic luck. 

“Oh would you look at that.” Aziraphale said blithely. “It’s snowing. How lovely.” 

Crowley took his mug and scowled out at the fluffy particles falling from the sky. “Won’t even stick properly.” 

Aziraphale sipped his tea and turned back to the shelves. “Well, just let me finish this shelf, and then we can - “

“What did you say earlier?” 

“Hmm?”

“About Italy? Churches every hundred meters?”

“Well, I’m not wrong.” Aziraphale mumbled. “Whole country is basically consecrated. Just fallout from the Vatican, I suppose.” 

“When was it we came here? 400’s?”

“Something like that. Can barely remember.”

“And why did you decide on this place?” 

“I quite liked it back then. Very green. Still is. All the rain, I suppose.” 

“And you decided to stay here for, what, fifteen hundred years?” 

“Well, you stayed too.” Aziraphale looked at his shoes. “You can hardly blame me.” 

In a flash, Crowley had the angel pressed up against one of his shelves. It’s not threatening. In fact, a hand is reaching up to caress Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I stayed because you were here, angel. What’s your excuse?” 

If Aziraphale’s heart could actually beat, it would be pounding. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Tell me about Joseon.” 

The demon released him and stepped away, careful of the mugs that had fallen to the floor and spilled their contents. “Let it go, Aziraphale.” 

Crowley bent to pick up the mugs.

“I just wanted to help.”

The demon froze. 

“That’s why I was in that church during the Blitz. Everything was so dark then, wasn’t it? I thought maybe that would finally be it. They’d prove themselves to be irredeemable, and the whole great experiment would come to an end. I was trying to...I don’t know, catch some of them, I suppose. Managed to muck it up, as usual. And then you were there. You saved me.” 

Crowley kept his gaze on the floor as he finally picked up the fallen mugs. “I prevented you from doing some paperwork, angel. Hardly qualifies as saving your life.”

“We had barely spoken in years, and you walked into a church to save me. And my books.” Aziraphale smiled slightly, then his expression fell again. “And that was when I knew I couldn’t...I’d have to be careful. If anyone found out you’d be...you’d already fallen once and I couldn’t let them take you.”

Crowley finally looked up and saw the angel was close to tears. “Aziraphale…”

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Crowley. I’m not...angels are made to love and I fell in love with the one creature I wasn’t supposed to.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes with his cuff. “I guess I have more in common with my siblings than I thought.” 

Crowley put the mugs safely next to the unused register. 

“I thought it would end me,” Aziraphale whispered. “Knowing that you felt the same way, knowing that I had to be the one who was careful enough to protect us both. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I made you suffer for so long - “ 

“I never suffered, angel. Not when I was with you.” Pale hands cupped his face, delicately brushing away the tears. “I would have settled for anything. You don’t expect a sunset to love you back.” 

“Don’t quote pop-culture at me. You know I don’t understand it.”

“At least you’re recognizing it.” Crowley continued to cradle the angel’s face. “I was in Joseon because I knew it would be ending. You know how it is, you start to get a sense for these things. I figured I might as well get over there and claim credit for some of it. Took longer than I expected for the dynasty to end, but everything took longer in those days.”

“That’s because you refused to ride a horse.” 

The demon ignored him. “I saw you in the market. You were buying ribbons. That merchant was walking all over you and you just kept coming up with money and buying more and more ribbons.”

“You must have thought me a fool.” 

“But then you gave them all away. Half the women in Hanyang probably received ribbons that day, because you couldn’t tell a saleswoman no.” Crowley smiled slightly. “And when I asked where mine was, and you said she didn’t have any that suited me. But one showed up in my bags the next day. A miracle.” 

“I didn’t think you would have wanted one.” 

“I spent almost six thousand years telling myself that staying close to you was keeping tabs on you, that being friendly was just another name for temptation, that convincing you to work together was my greatest evil deed of all. And then you gave me a ribbon simply because I asked, and I knew I was the fool.” Crowley closed his eyes. “Hundreds of lifetimes and the only thing I had really achieved was falling in love with my best friend. I didn’t want it, I didn’t want to be...I had thought that part of me had been ripped out.”

“So you went to sleep.” 

“I was never the brave one, of the two of us. By the time I actually wanted to be awake again, the glory of Joseon was just another memory, the humans had invented new ways of killing each other, and you were still mad about our fight in St James Park.” 

“I was never mad at you that day. I was afraid.” Aziraphale swallowed painfully. “I used to think I’d never stop being afraid.” 

“And now, angel?” Crowley tipped his face up ever so slightly. “Do you still have things to fear?” 

The angel couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, so he pulled the demon into a kiss instead. Of course there were still things to fear. The world was filled with them, and so was the afterlife. But Aziraphale was finding he was made of stronger stuff than anyone suspected. He’d been brave for Crowley before, and he could do it again. 

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn breathless, for Crowley to pull away and start to tug him towards the stairs. “Upstairs, angel. Or I’ll have you here in the shop and I hate an audience.”

“This is Soho, dear.” Aziraphale remarked dryly, but followed anyway. “They have better things to do than watch two middle aged men go at it through a shop window.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure. They might think it’s performance art.” At the top of the steps, Crowley turned and cradled his face again. “I know what your title is.” 

“My title?” Aziraphale repeated. 

“Angel of Courageous Loves.” Crowley’s voice dripped like honey over his lips. “Forbidden love implies something sinful. Does this feel sinful to you, angel?” 

Aziraphale isn’t sure if he answers. All he knows is the taste of his love’s words, and the rush he feels from their embrace. If this was the flaw of the Watchers, he never wanted to be whole. 

~*~

####  **Soho - January 4**

Crowley sipped his morning coffee and frowned down at the street. “Would you look at that. The snow did stick.”

Aziraphale rose an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like an audience.”

He got a salacious grin in response. “Maybe I just don’t like sharing.” 

“Just put your trousers on, dear.” 

Crowley’s grin didn’t lessen as he came away from the window and settled back on the bed. Aziraphale had put clothes on to get a paper and coffee, but now seemed content to pass the morning where he was. Crowley pressed a kiss into the angel’s pale shoulder. 

“You’re in a good mood this morning.” Aziraphale observed. 

“Full night’s sleep.” 

“Liar.” 

“That’s me.” 

Aziraphale tried to hide his smile behind the morning paper. Crowley curled around his lover, hooking his chin over his shoulder. 

“Anything terrible happen?”

“No.”

“Pity.” Crowley finished his coffee in one gulp and shoved the mug aside. “Right, I’m off.” 

Aziraphale watched him stand and stretch with barely contained affection. “Causing trouble again?”

“Me? No. Those days are behind me.” 

“I see.” 

“An angel came along and straightened me out.”

“Clearly.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers and clothes materialized and wrapped themselves around his lean frame. He looked in his breast pocket and fished out a pair of dark glasses. He leaned across the bed and pressed a kiss to his love’s mouth. 

“We should share more often.” Crowley hummed, hovering over his mouth. “I think it’s good for us.” 

“Would you believe the humans pay people to tell them that?” 

“I would. You’ve always overestimated their intelligence.” He took another kiss. “You’re working for the next few days?” 

“Hmm.”

“I’ll see you Thursday for dinner then.” 

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pouted slightly. “I hate surprises.” 

“I know.” Crowley took one last kiss. “Thursday, six o’clock, angel.”

Crowley slid his glasses over his eyes and left the flat, closing the door securely behind him. Aziraphale smiled slightly at his paper again. 

Maybe heaven was simply a reward you carved out for yourself. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Does it make sense? I don't think it makes sense. I've read porn with more plot than this. I just thought it would be a cool idea. Go ahead and yell at me in the comments section.


End file.
